Under the Knife: A Beautiful Woman, a Phony Doctor, and a Shocking Homicide (26 page)

MEANWHILE, MARK AND PATTY’S RELATIONSHIP HAD GROWN
more intense after Dean left the country. By May of 2005, though, they had a falling out. When he spoke to Greg Bach, Mark described her as “poisonous.” Both men knew they’d been beguiled and manipulated by Dean’s charm. Now Mark realized he had also been taken in by Patty.

LATE ON THURSDAY, MAY
19, 2005,
JEANE MACINTOSH FIELDED A
phone call from Monica Umana, a local reporter in San Jose. “They’re extraditing Dean back to the States. He’s not leaving tomorrow. It is unlikely that they’ll transport him over the weekend. They’ll probably fly him out on Monday.”

Jeane called every official she knew involved in the
case, but no one in New York would confirm or deny the tip. She talked to her editors, who decided to fly her and photographer Josh Williams to Costa Rica. Their mission was clear: “Don’t come back without a shot of Dean Faiello on the plane.”

Jeane and Josh landed in San Jose on Sunday, May 22. The first order of business: Find out about all flights flying from Costa Rica to New Jersey or New York on Monday. They made a list, then attempted the decades-old reporter technique: Book seats on each and every flight to ensure you get on the right one.

Unfortunately, since 9-11, this method of covering all of the bases was no longer viable. Every time Jeane booked one flight, the previous one was automatically cancelled. She didn’t realize that until she was a long way down her list.

She had to pick one flight and stick with it.
But which one?
she wondered. Jeane talked to employees at every relevant airline. They all assured her that there was a standard operating procedure employed by officials transporting a criminal. They always chose the flight closest to the hangar, where the wanted fugitives were brought when they entered the airport. Based on that, Jeane selected a Delta flight and chose two seats in different rows to increase the chances that one of them would get close to Faiello.

On Monday morning, Jeane and Josh hit the airport early. They had freelance reporters scattered in key locations. One staked out the jail. Another watched the highway to the airport. Jeane went to the counters of all the other airlines that had flights to New Jersey or New York and got their assurances that seats could be purchased for her and Josh at the last minute if the Delta gamble didn’t pay off.

The first freelancer called in. “He’s left the jail.” Then
the second call arrived. “He’s exiting the highway and heading for the airport.”

Jeane and Josh positioned themselves in front of a large window overlooking the aircraft that awaited boarding. They looked in opposite directions, hoping to spot Dean the second he emerged from any of the buildings.

For thirty stressful minutes, they kept watch. Jeane second-guessed herself at least a dozen times. Then, there he was, walking out of the hangar the airport personnel indicated a day earlier. Surrounded by United States Marshals, he walked across the tarmac, up the stairs and into the Delta aircraft—the same flight Jeane had booked.

She and Josh rushed to the entrance ramp and boarded the plane. Jeane saw Dean sitting near the back in the middle seat with Marshals flanking him. Another Marshal sat in the row in front of him and yet another in the row behind. Jeane looked away quickly. She did not want to catch Dean’s eye—not yet. And she didn’t want to alert the Marshals to media presence on the plane.

Josh and Jeane took their seats and buckled up. After take-off, but before breakfast was served, Josh stepped in the aisle and walked past Jeane without looking in her direction. From the back of the plane, he snapped two quick photographs.

Jeane then heard a loud thump. She spun around only to find Josh flat on the aisle floor with two Marshals towering over him. Jeane swung back and faced front. She didn’t want the agents to suspect that she was traveling with him.

As Josh remained on the floor, Jeane got antsy. She decided to walk to the back and go into the restroom, where she hoped she could eavesdrop on the Marshals. On her way down the aisle, she stepped over Josh, but she dared not look at him.

From the restroom Jeane overheard them telling Josh
that he would be arrested when the plane landed in Atlanta. She whipped out her cell phone and called New York to inform them of this latest development. She shut off her phone and exited the restroom. Josh was no longer on the floor as she returned to her seat, her heart racing.

While breakfast was being served, a thick folded-up piece of paper was nudged into her hand. She didn’t dare look up to see who had put it there. Paranoia sent goose bumps racing up and down her arms and legs. She darted glances around the plane to make sure the Marshals were not watching her, then opened the note with slow deliberation. It was from Josh.

“Obviously, I’ve been made. Don’t be connected to me. I may be arrested when we deplane in Atlanta.” Inside the note was the digital memory card from Josh’s camera. He managed to slip it out and tuck it away before the Marshals confiscated his camera. Jeane wrapped the paper back around the memory card and slid it into her purse. She tried to look like a normal passenger on a normal flight on a normal day. But inside she was terrified.

Dean watched the in-flight movie,
Ocean’s Twelve
, and read the book he had brought along,
Split Second
by David Baldacci. Jeane, meanwhile, couldn’t concentrate on anything.

At last, the flight landed in Atlanta. Jeane dawdled outside the gate waiting to see what would happen to Josh. The Marshals yelled warnings and threats at him, and when Josh agreed that he’d never do anything like that again, they returned his camera and released him.

Josh headed for the connecting flight. Jeane followed Dean and the Marshals to the gate, making sure she stayed out of Dean’s line of sight. They all waited for forty-five minutes for boarding to begin for their flight to Newark.

Jeane was one of the first to take her assigned seat. It
was a middle seat in the back row. A Marshal approached her and said, “Ma’am, we’re going to have to take your seat.” He directed her to another just a couple of rows up and on the opposite side. From her new location, she had an excellent angle to keep her eye on Dean, as they positioned him in the seat she vacated.

Jeane kept a surreptitious watch on Dean throughout the flight. He read his book for most of it, but spent the last twenty minutes staring out the window, looking lost and forlorn. When the landing gear kissed the tarmac, he let out a huge sigh.

It came time to disembark, and Jeane acted is if she were having difficulties getting her belongings together. She delayed leaving her seat until nearly everyone else was off the plane. Then she walked back a couple of rows toward Dean.

He recognized her right away, pointing a finger at her and saying to the Marshals, “You should arrest her, too. She’s with the media, too. She’s with the
Post.”

One of the Marshals cast a dead look in her direction and asked who she was. Before she could respond, Dean interrupted. “Her name is Jeane MacIntosh. Arrest her.”

“Dean, do you want to talk?” Jeane asked. “Do you want to say anything about your arrival back home?”

At the sound of her voice, Dean composed himself and donned a smile. “Do you have any plans for dinner tonight, Jeane?”

One of the Marshals pushed Jeane up the aisle and ushered her off the plane.

IN NEW YORK, MARSHALS TURNED CUSTODY OF THEIR PRISONER
over to Investigators Brian Ford and Joe Buffolino of the attorney general’s office. They escorted him to the Midtown North Precinct in Manhattan where they were joined by Detective Joe Della Rocca.

A media throng stood by, snapping pictures, shooting video and hoping for a comment from the elusive Faiello. Dean, though, wasn’t talking. In a short-sleeved gray-striped button-down shirt, baggy blue jeans, alligator loafers and a pair of handcuffs, he looked at the ground, not making eye contact with anyone in the crowd. He appeared rumpled, tired, overly thin and in need of a shave. He didn’t look capable of murder.

In Queens, Maria’s Uncle Jose Navarro told reporters: “I’d like to thank the police department. They did a good job and I have faith in the justice system. I have faith in the district attorney’s office.”

Maria’s father, at home near Manila in the Philippines, said, “Our prayers have been answered. If only our prayers could bring back Maria.”

THE NEXT DAY, DEAN APPEARED BEFORE STATE SUPREME COURT
Justice Gregory Carro for arraignment on the bail-jumping charge in connection with his unlicensed practice of medicine conviction. Defense Attorney Aaron Goldsmith, a lawyer in Margaret Shalley’s firm, was by his side providing legal counsel.

Deciding that Dean was a flight risk was a no-brainer. “At this point, the defendant has already demonstrated a willingness not to return to court,” the judge said as he denied Faiello’s request for bail. He ordered Dean to return to court on June 13 for sentencing on the medical fraud charge—an inevitability he’d avoided for nearly two years. Instead of the 6 months of incarceration that Margaret Shalley negotiated for him before his flight to Costa Rica, Dean was now expected to receive the maximum sentence of 4 years.

DEAN APPEARED IN A COURTROOM AGAIN THAT THURSDAY
—this time in Manhattan Criminal Court before Judge Anthony Ferrera—where he was arraigned for the first time on second-degree murder charges in the death of Maria Cruz. It was Dean’s first encounter with the woman determined to put him behind bars for a long time: New York County Assistant District Attorney Ann Prunty.

Prunty was admitted to the New York Bar in 1985 and joined the trial division of the prosecutor’s office.

She made her mark in the prosecutor’s office in the summer of 1993 when she was appointed deputy bureau chief and volunteered for Project Octopus, an experimental effort to allow prosecutors a more proactive role in the fight against crime. Her laboratory was the Ninth Precinct on the Lower East Side, where the sidewalks were stained with a long history of drug violence.

Prunty set two goals for the initial phase of the project. First, educate her teams about the nature of criminal activity in the area. Secondly, develop the necessary relationships with precinct and housing authority police, and within the community itself, to create a smooth exchange of information and intelligence.

In a couple of months, Prunty developed the strategic
direction for the project. She forged a sustained, coordinated organizational arrangement between the attorneys and the police. By the end of 1994, the results of her efforts were apparent. Arrests of two-bit offenders—known as Dixie cups in the drug world for their easy disposability—had led to the arrest and conviction of more heavy-weight players in the narcotics trade.

Prunty’s tenacity and resourcefulness were a proven commodity. She gained the grade of senior trial counsel and was assigned for a time to the Rackets Bureau. Her latest assignment: the Cold Case Unit of the trials division, where she brought her talents and experience to bear in her prosecution of Dean Faiello.

That morning in Judge Ferrera’s court, Prunty announced her plans to present the case to the grand jury for a determination of the charges her office would be filing against the defendant. The judge denied bail and set the next court date for June 28.

Dean, meanwhile, had a new high-powered defense attorney by his side—Anthony Ricco. After the court session, Ricco told reporters, “This case, although there was a terrible loss of life, doesn’t amount to a murder.” He contemplated allowing Dean to testify before the grand jury, to get the charges reduced. “My client never intended to kill anyone.”

When asked if Faiello’s run to Costa Rica was an acknowledgment of guilt, Ricco said that it was more like panic. “One cannot determine guilt from flight. One runs from things, one runs to things,” he said.

The reporters then asked him about Dean’s prospects for conviction. “I always have an uphill battle,” he said. “But I’ve learned in the long run that you have to reserve judgment. He’s entitled to the presumption of innocence. It looks like a long road, but we’ve been on a long road
before. Oftentimes things are not what they appear to be when all is said and done.”

Anthony—Tony—Ricco with his rangy six-foot frame, bow-tied neck, jutting chin, shaved head and knack for story-telling, captivated every courtroom he entered. But he began his life far lower on the socio-economic ladder.

Tony grew up with six siblings in Harlem on West 122
^nd
Street in a neighborhood where pessimism thrived, along with a never-ending supply of illegal drugs. He was just 9 years old in 1966 when the integration of the public schools swept him from his shabby world into a place of privilege, one he didn’t know existed. Bused to a school on East 57
^th
Street, he entered a world of white.

Tony’s mother worked for the postal service for a good part of her life. His father was a bitter man, thwarted in his choice of career because of the color of his skin. He clung to a tattered letter he received in 1949 from NBC radio. In it they informed him that it was against their policy to hire “colored men” as radio announcers.

Not all of Tony’s siblings made it to adulthood. When Tony was 12, his 15-year-old sister Marcia died of a heroin overdose in the bathtub of a ratty basement apartment.